


Old Dog, New Tricks

by becka



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety about aging, Dogs, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Neighbors, Post-Divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2699426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/pseuds/becka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick’s thirty-eight years old and just been dumped. Moving into his old flat in Primrose Hill feels like a further step backwards, but at least he has a new (old, flatulent) dog and long-suffering BFF Daisy Lowe for company, and the hot young barrister down the street is awfully friendly...</p><p>Based on the plot of <i>Anyone But You</i> by Jennifer Crusie. Written for the <a href="http://harlequin1d.tumblr.com/">harlequin1D</a> challenge on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Dog, New Tricks

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Lucy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/balefully) for cheerleading and letting me read this aloud to her while drunk. <3

“Reckon it’s good I never sold it,” says Nick, cheer ringing hollow in his voice as he looks at the clutter of plastic tubs and packing cartons in his new (old) bedroom. The flat feels smaller now, and he’s sorry he’d let the renters paint because the bedroom walls are a mustardy yellow that looks dirty without even trying.

Daisy sets down the box she’s been carrying and comes to kiss him on the cheek. “It’ll start to feel like home again soon enough.”

Nick has been waffling and whinging about where things should go, if he should have them like last time or whether it’s better to start completely fresh. So much of his art collection will never see the light of day with this limited wall space, and that’s the sort of careful decision-making Nick thinks he can focus on right now. The other questions about the spaces in his life are too bloody complicated.

He’s got more stuff in the boot of his car, but the movers have been and gone now, so he decides to leave it. Daisy asks if she should stay, and Nick shakes his head. He’s not sure being alone will do him any good, but he’ll feel marginally less pathetic if he doesn’t let Daisy hang around fussing. Once she’s left, he slumps onto the sofa and tries to decide if he feels like crying.

In his late twenties and early thirties, Nick had made a standing joke of his distaste for dating and his inability to conduct adult relationships. The papers had speculated every time he went to dinner with the same man more than twice, and he had snogged a lot of his friends out of the public eye because that was easier than trying to have a real relationship in front of the nation. And then he’d met Jarrod, who was slightly older and well fit and charmingly Australian, and he’d been properly courted for the first time in his life. It wasn’t something he’d expected, and he avoided the topic of his love life on the breakfast show until after they’d bought a bloody house together and it was a bit hard to brush off.

Nick reflects that it hadn’t felt whirlwind at the time—on the contrary, it had seemed shockingly reasonable and grown up—but looking back on it, it’s like an odd six-year swerve in the path of his life. They’d had shared credit cards and a checking account and only one set of ceramic cookware, and Nick really thought it might all stick. But now he’s thirty-eight years old and moving back into his old flat and he doesn’t even have divorce papers to show for all his heartache because they never bothered to get married. “We’ll still talk,” Jarrod had said, pleadingly, after the initial blow of “I think we should break up” had sunk in. “We’ll always be friends. I just don’t think this can last.”

And Nick, in his infinite maturity, had had nothing to say to that except, “Yeah, alright.” He’d felt so hollowed out then, in the lounge they’d carefully furnished with a mix of both their things, with their vacation photos on the mantle. He’d said, Yeah, alright, and looked at his hands, and not even fought it.

Jarrod hadn’t had anywhere else to go and Nick had, and that had all but settled the question of who got the house in the short term. Nick had phoned the estate agent who’d been handling his old flat for the past five years and been very calm and matter of fact as he said he’d need to give notice to the couple letting it. They’d been there three years, and as he looks around at the oddly coloured walls, he wonders if they feel as uprooted as he does.

Nick had liked being single so much, is the thing, but he’d never much liked being alone. And what he’d found about being in a long-term relationship was that it was a nice excuse to always have company. Jarrod gave his undivided attention to several Kardashian spinoffs and every series of X Factor, and Nick had felt lucky to find someone who could put up with the sheer amount of junk pop culture he consumed in the name of “work”. For the last three months now he’s been drifting aimlessly among his friends, staying in spare rooms and on sofas, trying to remember how he used to do that so easily, back when the stakes were lower. Back when forty was still a dot on a far horizon.

The fact that he’s weeks away from starting his new job presenting weekday afternoon drivetime on Radio 2 doesn’t help either. He doesn’t feel ready for the adult world, especially not when it feels as though the adult parts of his life are getting stripped away. There’s already been an exposé in Heat chronicling the downfall of Nick’s only serious relationship, and he’s regressed to a flat he bought when he was twenty-seven and still hip. Sara keeps telling him not to sweat it, that Radio 2 people are really lovely and they want to talk about who’s on Strictly and what they had for their tea just like everyone else. But to Nick it feels like he’s headed for the first day of school in a new country and he’s got the wrong clothes and none of his books. Still, he has a few weeks to steel himself, and it’ll be nice to be back at broadcasting house every night again.

It’s probably not surprising that he falls asleep in a sad sprawl on the sofa and wakes up with a crick in his back several hours later. He makes himself get up to have a shower, and so many things are achingly familiar in the bathroom too, although he keeps staring at the new shower curtain like it’s intruding somehow. Looking around, he could be twenty-seven years old, making his first mortgage payment and about to start his dream job.

In the mirror over the sink though, he sees his crows’ feet and the strands of grey in his hair. He knows he’ll have to start dyeing it soon if he wants to keep the brown; his dad and brother had both gone totally grey in their forties, and now Nick’s nearly there. He turns away rather than keep staring at himself, and even though it’s not nearly late enough for bed, he decides he doesn’t care. Nick tucks a sheet around his mattress and drags a pillow and a throw out of one of the boxes in the bedroom, then strips down to his pants and goes to sleep.

 

Nick wakes up twelve hours later disoriented but slightly less exhausted. His phone’s in the lounge, and he finds a handful of messages from people he’d made tentative plans with this week. The only one he responds to is Daisy, who’d texted to find out if he wanted to go for a run. The text is only ten minutes old, so he assumes she’s still at home, but he’s not surprised when she turns up at his door in sleek jogging kit a little later, her hair in a high pony and her cheeks pink like she’s already been out. “Come on, Grim. Find your trainers. I’ll buy you breakfast after.”

Nick can’t really do much to argue with a direct order, since he knows ‘I’m sad and I don’t want to go anywhere’ won’t fly with Daisy. They have a quick jog around the park, and Nick isn’t even struggling to keep up, so he can tell she’s going easy on him. Daisy doesn’t ask him any difficult questions either, and that’s been the nice thing about her helping him move. She’s excited that they’ll be neighbours again, regardless that it’s only happening because Nick’s life is falling to bits.

He buys them both coffees and pains au chocolat at a café down the road from the park, and they sit outside in their sweaty workout clothes. It’s the part of Saturday morning when everyone going by on the pavement seems to be walking a dog, and Nick makes joyful faces at every single one of them.

“Have you thought about getting a pet?” Daisy asks, as Nick coos at a French bulldog.

Nick looks at her and frowns. He hadn’t. He’s not sure he wants to. “I don’t know what’s even happening in my life right now. How could I take care of a pet?”

Daisy smiles and shakes her head. “You think that, but really, who’s more stable than you? You’ve got a flat and a job and at least one beautiful neighbour to cuddle your pet if you go on holiday. You think you’re a mess, but you’re not.”

“What if I want to be a mess though?” says Nick. “What if that’s what I like being?”

“Then you’ll need to try a bit harder, I’m afraid, love. You’re just altogether too responsible.”

Nick doesn’t feel responsible. He feels sad and desperate for company. But at least a dog would give him that.

 

Nick goes to the rescue where he got his last two dogs, and finds that in the last decade they’ve expanded greatly, occupying their own storefront in the part of Hackney he’s tried to avoid for the last several months. He feels like a covert agent walking up in his sunglasses, although he’s not being subtle or sneaky at all; he just hadn’t told anyone he was coming. He’s had enough years being part of a decision-making “we” and he wants this one to be all his. The owner gives him a hug like a long-lost relative, asks him how long it’s been since he’s had a furry friend at home. And the truth is, it’s been a long time. Pig’s been living with Ian and Aimee for nearly five years, and whilst that was the right choice for Nick-and-Jarrod, Nick on his own wishes there was some way he could take back that decision. Some way that wouldn’t deprive a couple of toddlers of their dog.

“I’ve just moved house, and it’s me on my own. I’m feeling a bit as though I’d like to pamper someone.”

“Well,” she says, “we’ve got plenty here who’d love a bit of pampering.” She shows him a half-dozen dogs, nervous and excited and wagging for attention, and Nick remembers Puppy with a sudden rush of heart-searing fondness. He’d picked dogs who were young and a bit troublesome before, and he’d loved them deeply and without reservation. He’d been young and troublesome too, back then.

Nick nearly doesn’t see the basset mix in the corner of his cage, a boneless-looking pile of fur. But he stops to peer more closely. “That’s Doug,” says the owner. “Poor love’s been here for ages.”

“Is something wrong with him?”

“We reckon he’s a little depressed. His owner died, and there was no one to take him, and he’s old and doesn’t want to play up for new people.”

“I can understand that,” says Nick with a wry smile.

She nudges him with her elbow. “Oh come now, Grimmy, I’ve seen your chat show. You love a bit of banter with a stranger.”

“Doug’s not much for banter then?”

“He’s not much for anything except food. That’s why we think he’s all right, really: he’s never gone off his feed.”

Nick puts his hand to the front of the cage and Doug looks wearily up at him. He’s jowly and has an odd bald patch on one leg, but Nick says, “Hi, Doug! Hi, lovely puppy dog!” and after a moment, Doug gives one single encouraging thump of his tail.

“I’ll take him,” says Nick.

“Really? Don’t you want someone a bit younger, more energetic?”

Nick is nearly forty, functionally divorced, and living amongst a stack of boxes he can’t be arsed to unpack. He’s coming to terms with the fact that his romantic life—such as it ever was—is probably over. “People are more likely to take the younger ones, aren’t they? Leave an old bloke like Doug behind?”

“Of course,” she says sadly. “Of course they are. Doug’s been here nearly four months, and no one’s even glanced his way.”

“Then it sounds like he needs a little extra love, and I have plenty. Right, Doug?” Doug’s still looking at him with vague interest. “Plenty of extra love to give.”

“I’ll start putting together the papers then.”

He doesn’t get to take Doug home right away. There’s still a training process he has to get through, standards for Doug’s care, and a home visit that inspired some frantic shoving of packing cartons into cupboards. He may regret that later. But all in all, Nick’s sure he made the right choice.

“He’s like me,” Nick tells Daisy later that day. Nick’s exiled from his house whilst professionals do something about the mustard walls in his bedroom, and they’re sat on a blanket in the park, although it’s not quite warm enough for it except when the sun hits them just right. The park will be better with a dog. “He’s a cranky old man. We understand each other.”

“You’re not old,” Daisy insists. “You’re nothing like old. But I’m happy you’re going to have a friend.” Daisy has been dog-less for a couple of years, and she seems all right with it, but then Daisy manages to be all right with most things. She’s only getting more sweetly zen-like in her thirties. “You’re going to keep the name?”

“He answers to it,” says Nick. “It wouldn’t be fair to go round calling him ‘Pizza’ and he’s got no idea what I’m on about.”

“Doug’s good though,” says Daisy. “It’s like in _Up_.”

Nick stares blankly at her. “Is that a film?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, it’s one of the Pixar-animated ones. I’ll make you and Doug watch it sometime. When’s he actually get to yours?”

“Couple of weeks,” says Nick. He feels so good about his choices, and when Doug is finally, properly his, he’s going to love him to the ends of the earth.

“Have you met our other new neighbour yet?” asks Daisy, changing the subject abruptly.

“I haven’t seen anyone but you and a grumpy dog since I moved back. What’s so special about the new neighbour?”

“Well, his name’s Harry and he’s an absolute sweetheart, but mostly it’s that he’s spotted us and he’s coming this way.”

Nick looks up to see a man with a halo of curly hair walking up the hill towards them, and he wouldn’t say he’s overcome with lust, but he’s not unmoved. It doesn’t help that the man is wearing jeans that are obviously meant to draw exactly this sort of attention to his thighs. “Sweetheart, is he?” says Nick.

“Among his other good qualities,” replies Daisy. “Harry! Hi!”

“Hello,” says Harry. His eyes flicker to Nick and back to Daisy, once then again. Nick’s a minor sort of celebrity, and he wonders if Harry’s trying to decide what to say to that slightly uncool man off the telly. He looks young, not uni-aged but fresh-faced. Nick feels eight hundred years old all over again.

“Hi,” says Nick. “I’m Nick. Daisy tells me we’re neighbours.”

Harry gives him a quick little smile, almost shy. He doesn’t look like the sort of person who would be shy. “I’m Harry. Daisy told me that too. It’s nice to meet you.” He holds his hand out awkwardly, angling so Nick can take it without getting up.

“Nice to meet you too,” says Nick.

“Would you like to join us, Harry?” says Daisy. “We’ve got plenty of apple cake.”

When Harry smiles, it takes over his whole face. “That’d be great, thanks.”

Harry is a barrister (“I thought about changing my name to Harrister so it would rhyme, but my sister said that was a bad idea”). He likes getting to wear robes occasionally, and he doesn’t mind long hours of legal research. He’s lived in the flat two down from Nick’s for a year. He likes Daisy’s apple cake an awful lot. Nick’s still trying to decide whether the apple-cake-liking is really just liking Daisy’s boobs and trying to get in her good graces when it starts to rain and they have to flee the park.

Nick and Daisy share Harry’s umbrella, which is unexpectedly pink, and their shoulders keep bumping as the three of them hunch together underneath it. “Come back to mine, Harry,” says Daisy. “Nick’s got painters in today, so he’s supposed to keep away from the fumes a bit longer.”

“What colour have you gone for?” asks Harry.

“White,” says Nick, feeling sheepish. “I like to hang stuff up and not worry about it clashing.”

“Sensible.” Harry smiles, and Nick doesn’t know him well enough to tell if it’s sarcastic. He chooses to assume it’s not.

“I might do blue or summat in the lounge.”

“Grimmy likes to keep things simple in the bedroom,” Daisy teases. Nick rolls his eyes.

Back at Daisy’s, she puts on a film they can talk over, and Nick finds Harry infringing on his personal space not long after. Daisy is a cuddler and always has been, and with Harry on his other side, Nick finds himself caught in a tangle of their limbs. It’s nice, honestly, just having people to touch. Harry smells light and citrusy, cologne or shampoo, and he’s so warm at Nick’s side.

Harry knows plenty about music, which is Nick’s favourite thing to talk about, and he finds himself offering to make Harry a playlist for his long days writing briefs.

“I like having dance parties by myself,” says Harry. “It gets too quiet.”

“Nick makes great mixes,” says Daisy. “He’ll tell you he doesn’t know how to do anything except press buttons on the radio, but it’s a big lie.”

“I wouldn’t believe him if he told me that,” says Harry. “I saw him DJ once.”

“Did you?” asks Nick in surprise.

“Yep. Fresher’s ball in Nottingham. I went with my sister when I was sixteen. You were great.”

Nick groans. “God, don’t talk to me about how I was DJing when you were bloody sixteen! I feel ancient enough.”

“You don’t look ancient,” says Harry softly. He’s looking at Nick so intently that Nick has to look away.

“I tell him that every day, Harry,” says Daisy. “He won’t listen.” She touches the streak of grey at his temple, and Nick wrinkles his nose.

“Stop it, both of you. I just want to sink into decrepitude in peace.”

“Not once you have your dog though,” says Daisy.

“I’ll have you know Doug is a very peaceful dog. And understands my decrepitude on a deep personal level.” Nick already feels so fond of the idea of Doug, and he’s not even here yet.

“I’m excited to meet him,” says Harry.

 

Doug doesn’t like a lot of bog-standard dog things, as Nick discovers as soon as they start having classes together at the adoption centre. He doesn’t like tennis balls. He doesn’t like sticks. He doesn’t like running, which Nick can hardly blame him for, since running is generally awful. But it’s an adjustment, taking him off to the park and having him waddle along with great reluctance, sniffing half-heartedly at bits of grass other dogs have weed on. He doesn’t pull against the lead, and when other dogs come round wanting to make friends, he doesn’t seem to know what to do.

“He’s just not very good at being a dog,” says Nick to Daisy, massaging Doug’s ears as he takes up most of one sofa in Nick’s lounge. He hopes he sounds fond about it, although rationally he knows that Doug understands ear skritches much better than words.

“Maybe he’s just a different sort of dog,” says Daisy cheerfully. “He’s old and likes his quiet home life.”

Doug farts loudly, then lifts his head and looks at Nick as though someone else might have made the noise. It smells _rank_. “He does that a lot too,” says Nick.

“Maybe he needs a different diet,” says Daisy sympathetically. “I’ll see what I can cook up.”

“Doggy nutritionist now, are you?”

“I think everyone should be eating delicious healthy food. That includes Doug as well.” Daisy’s third cookbook has been a runaway hit, and Nick makes her cook for him as often as possible, largely by looking pathetically at his kitchen full of boxes when she comes round. Actual puppy dog eyes are apparently even more effective.

“Would you like that, Doug?” Nick asks. “Auntie Daisy could make you dinner sometime.”

Doug sighs a bit and lies back down, a soppy brown puddle of dog across the sofa.

“I reckon that’s a yes,” says Nick. “I reckon that’s Doug-speak for, ‘Let’s have a full Sunday roast with all the trimmings please, Auntie Daisy.’

“It’s really funny how Doug’s opinion aligns so well with the opinion of Nick’s stomach. But that’s a coincidence, I’m sure.” She winks at him. “And that’s not to say I won’t do it.”

“You’re the best friend a dog could ask for. And this one certainly needs friends.”

“What about you?” asks Daisy. “Do you need friends?”

“You mean, do I need a toyboy to make me feel eight hundred years old and probably laugh about me behind my back, right? The answer to that is no.”

“You’re worse than Doug. He’s a bit sad and droopy, but you’re being _mean_.” She seems genuinely hurt. “Harry is completely wonderful and no one’s toyboy. And he likes you. He obviously likes you.”

“Well, I’m likable,” says Nick. “That’s my whole career, up to now.”

“Then let him like you.”

“I was with the same man for six years, and bloody no one before that. I don’t remember how to let someone actually be interested in me.”

Daisy strokes his hair like she would stroke the dog’s ears. “Just be his friend then. You’re dead good at that.”

Nick subsides into peeved silence.

 

The next time he sees Harry, he’s coaxing Doug up the steps from the flat, saying, “What a lovely day for a walk, hey, Doug?” and Harry is passing by in skin-tight yoga gear, a rolled up yoga mat under his arm.

Doug has come as far as the landing and stopped, looking dolefully up, which puts Nick about on eye-level with Harry’s ankles, which are as shapely as the rest of him.

“Hi!” says Harry. “Is this your new dog?”

“Hiya,” replies Nick. “Yeah, this is Doug. He doesn’t like stairs. Or walks. Or sunshine, probably.”

Harry laughs. “I’m sure he’s just getting used to things. He’s sweet.” Harry puts a cautious foot on Nick’s top step. “Can I come down and say hi?”

“Of course. If you’re not in a rush.” Nick nods at the yoga mat.

Harry shrugs. “I’m already late for class. I might just give it a miss for today.” He comes down to stand beside Nick on the landing, then kneels to reach out a hand for Doug to sniff.

To Nick’s surprise, Doug licks Harry’s palm and starts to wag his tail. Harry starts scratching the base of Doug’s floppy ears, and Doug lifts his head in blissful acceptance. It’s so nice to see him happy about something besides his breakfast that Nick can’t help but smile. “I think he likes me,” says Harry quietly. 

“You haven’t recently been rolling in raw meat and/or fox poo, have you?” Nick asks.

“Do I smell?” asks Harry. “I didn’t think I did.”

“No,” says Nick. “No, not at all. Doug’s interests so far just haven’t really included people. I mean, he likes me alright, but not like that.”

Harry gives Doug one last pat and stands up. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. He’s a sweetheart, he just doesn’t know it quite yet. It’s nice you bring it out in him.”

Harry ducks his head, but he’s smiling, and Nick likes his smile more than is wise. “Were you going for a walk?” asks Harry. “Mind if I tag along?”

“If you’re not going to yoga.”

“Walking with you and Doug sounds more fun.”

“Big into yoga, are you?”

Harry shrugs, tucking the yoga mat more tightly under his arm as he walks back up the steps to the pavement. Doug follows him. “I like the, like, calm of it. And it makes me feel a bit more coordinated. And bendy.”

“Handy, that,” says Nick. Doug is trotting along ahead of them as though he’s a normal dog. Nick likes seeing him happy. If Harry makes him happy, perhaps they’ll both need to spend more time with Harry.

 

He has dinner with Sara Cox the night before he starts his Radio 2 show, and it’s a relief to speak to someone who’s been through this particular rite of passage before. Although by the time their starters arrive, Nick’s already spilling out a long list of worries, and she may be regretting her decision to come.

“Oh, love, it’s not as though you’re dying,” she says, pouring him a second glass of wine and patting his hand.

“It is a bit though, isn’t it?” asks Nick plaintively. “My youth is dying away.”

“Just think of it like a rebirth. As though, from the ashes of Radio 1, you’ll rise to Radio 2 drivetime!”

“Is it as epic as all that?”

“No,” Sara admits. “But it’s lovely, and everyone will be kind as you’re just settling in, and nearly all of them will be older than you!”

“That’ll be a nice change,” Nick says. Every time he meets someone on work experience born in the 2000’s, he dies a bit inside. Sara’s eldest daughter will be off to uni in a year, but in Nick’s head, she’ll always be eight years old, sprawled on the studio floor at Radio 1 with a collection of plastic horses, back when the new building still looked new.

“You’ll be wonderful,” Sara tells him.

“I’ve never done afternoons,” Nick admits, which isn’t any sort of revelation, but he keeps thinking about it, how it might be different from mornings and evenings and late nights and weekends.

“It’s just like breakfast, except the commuters are glad to be off home instead grumpy about going to work. You’ll think up your silly features and stuff and be right at home in no time, babbling away.”

“I don’t know how to do silly features for Radio 2. They’re all adult and stuff.”

“Radio 2 listeners love a good story as much as anyone. Ask people to phone in with funny stories about their dogs, and you can talk about your Doug, and you can waste on hour just on puppy chat.” Sara is a genius broadcaster because she makes everything look simple, easy, like she’s just having a conversation with the whole of Britain. It’s something Nick has always strived for, but he’s not certain he’s quite got the hang of it, even after all these years.

Still, he leaves dinner and walks home feeling better rather than worse.

 

On his first day at Radio 2, he’s expecting a bit of fuss, but he’s not expecting Harry Styles with a basket full of chocolate chip cookies and a giant smile. And yet he gets a call from reception whilst he’s doing prep with his new producer, saying there’s a Harry Styles in the lobby for him, and when Harry steps out of the lift, he’s got a basket over one arm and a colourful bouquet in the other hand.

“Happy first day on the job!” he says, handing Nick the flowers. “Daisy thought you could charm everyone with baking.”

“She thought my natural warmth and sweetness wouldn’t be enough, eh?” says Nick. He opens the lid of the Tupperware with the cookies. “These have quinoa or something in them, right?”

Harry laughs. “Probably. I’m just the messenger. I’m sure they’re delicious though.”

“Daisy doesn’t miss when it comes to baking.”

“She’s amazing,” agrees Harry. “I worked in a bakery when I was a kid, but it was never that good.”

“Thanks for bringing these,” says Nick.

“Welcome,” says Harry. “The flowers are from me. You shouldn’t, like, eat them. But I thought they were nice.”

“They’re lovely. Thanks, Harry.” Nick picks at the handle of Daisy’s basket, feeling awkwardly out of his depth, unsure if he’s being flirted with.

“I just thought they were nice. And you’re also nice. So.”

It’s awful. He’s like a male version of Daisy, too sweet to possibly be real. “Did you want to hang around for a bit? You can watch me press buttons until you get bored.”

Harry smiles that whole-face smile of his, and Nick is both charmed and flattered. “That’d be amazing. I’ve always wanted to see how things worked for the radio.”

“Lots of buttons,” says Nick sagely. “Although it’s almost all touchscreen now, no actual buttons.”

“Still sounds neat. If you don’t mind me staying. I’ll be quiet.”

Nick is new to Radio 2, and he should probably be worried about his professionalism, but Harry looks so excited, and at least he’ll be cheerful for his first day. He lets Harry hang around arranging his flowers in the hall whilst he goes to finish his prep, and all during the show, he finds himself talking in Harry’s direction, almost by accident. With Harry sat there in the corner of the studio, looking at him and smiling, he has a more receptive audience than he could even have asked for. And his new producer, a Scottish lady called Monica, seems happy to indulge his guest.

Nick chats with a load of callers about traffic and travel, and manages not to slag off any of the songs they’re playing, even the really rubbish ones, and he solicits some feature suggestions from the great British public. They’ve had a fill-in presenter for over a week before this, and Nick wonders if they’re just eager for him to settle in and start doing things of his own. During songs, he chats to Harry, who is charming Monica the producer with the same ease he charmed Nick. By the time the whole of his three hours have passed, Nick’s feeling comfortable in his own skin again, thinking that perhaps broadcasting is really a good career for him; perhaps he really does know what he’s doing after fifteen bloody years.

As soon as Nick finishes on air, Harry stands to applaud him, grinning ear to ear. He looks ridiculous, just clapping in the corner of the studio, but he obviously doesn’t care. “Don’t want your money back then?” Nick asks. It’s hard to believe Harry’s even stayed for the whole show; Nick reckoned he would’ve got bored and wandered off home after a few links.

“You’re brilliant,” says Harry. “You’ve always been brilliant on the radio.”

It shouldn’t surprise Nick that Harry’s listened to him before. He was charged with bringing youth back to the Radio 1 Breakfast Show at exactly the time Harry was a youth. But it’s still odd to hear him mention it. “Thanks,” says Nick.

“Can I take you for dinner, maybe?” Harry asks, stepping over to the desk as Nick untangles himself from the cord of his headphones.

It feels so much as though Harry’s asking him out that Nick can’t even joke that Harry’s asking him out. But he wants dinner, and he likes Harry, so he just says, “Sounds good. Let me just…” He waves vaguely at the desk, to indicate paperwork and technical things.

“Of course. I’ll wait outside.”

“Grimmy, I didn’t realise you had a boyfriend,” says Monica, when Harry’s out of sight. “He’s lovely, isn’t he?”

Nick tries not to grimace. “He’s actually just my neighbour. But he is lovely, definitely.”

“Oh dear, sorry!” she says. “I’ve put my foot in it the first day.”

Nick shakes his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll do worse by the end of the week. Have you got a partner I can call by the wrong name or summat?”

“My husband’s called Simon, if that helps you think of anything,” she tells him with an amiable wink.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Nick meets Harry in the hall outside the studio, where he’s peering into darkened offices. “You’re not planning a future burglary, are you?” Nick asks.

Harry turns to grin at him. “Damn. You worked out my nefarious plan. Are you ready to go?”

“Yep,” says Nick. “Where are we going?”

“Your choice. It’s your first day.”

They end up at Nick’s favourite Greek restaurant in Primrose Hill, and Harry seems to know things about wine, so Nick lets him choose a bottle. It shouldn’t be a date, but that’s what it seems like, sat across the table from a man ten years his junior who is making him feel all these wonderful swoopy first date feelings.

 

“I need to find someone age-appropriate,” he tells Daisy. They’re lying in the middle of the carpet rubbing Doug’s belly, delightedly undignified as Doug flops his paws in the air. He’s been settling in a bit in the last few weeks, looking content instead of cautiously accepting, and Nick has to admit Daisy’s new doggy diet seems to have cured the worst of his flatulence problem.

“What are you on about now?” Daisy asks.

“I’ve been thinking I’d like to date someone again,” Nick says. “But I want someone my age. I’m not having a mid-life crisis just yet.”

She pins him with a weary look. “Harry isn’t a mid-life crisis,” she says.

“He’s twenty-nine,” Nick replies, not even denying that Harry’s exactly what’s on his mind. “That’s a decade difference.”

“And how many twenty-year-old models did you pull when you started breakfast? It never bothered you then!”

Nick sighs. “I never tried to date them though. And I wasn’t old then. I was, like, all youth culture and hip and all. Now I’m getting into sad, creepy uncle territory.”

“You’re not though, darling,” Daisy tells him, pulling her hand away from Doug for a moment to pat Nick’s shoulder. “You’re still cool, and you’re still fit, and you deserve to have someone who likes you as much as Harry does.”

“I just want to try it, alright? I just want to see what happens if I go on dates with men my actual own age. Jarrod was my age and that worked fine for a while. Years, even.”

“Right,” agrees Daisy, resigned. “So where do you propose to find these dates?”

“I’ve made a profile on an online dating site.” He brings it up on his phone and hands it over. He’s really quite pleased with it, thinks it represents both his good points and his quirks effectively.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea though? Your face is awfully recognizable. People are going to ask you for loads of weird things that aren’t dates, and you’re going to have to sift through them just to find one who’s interested.”

Nick hesitates at that, because he’s had a few fans become awkwardly too interested in him in his time, and he doesn’t want a repeat. “What else do I do then?”

“Ask Harry out,” says Daisy flatly. He glares at her until she rolls her eyes. “Is there anyone at Radio 2 worth dating?”

Nick hasn’t really thought about it. There are loads of people in the office. Surely at least one of them must be gay and single and not horrible. “I’ll have a look round,” he says. “But if there’s anyone else you know, put out the word that I’m on the prowl.” He makes a sultry face and bends his hand into a claw before going back to Doug’s tummy rub.

 

Nick gets a grand total of three dates off his genius plan, and although they’re perfectly nice blokes, he doesn’t want to bring any of them home. He doesn’t even particularly want a cheeky snog in a cab. At the end of the night, he wants to go home to his dog and his bed and feel sad that the hot barrister up the road is too young for him.

It’s insult to injury that Doug somehow keeps trying to wander down the steps to Harry’s flat instead of Nick’s own as they finish their plodding morning walks. “You don’t think he’s trying to tell me something, is he?” Nick asks Daisy as they’re waiting for _X Factor_ to start one night.

“Only the same thing I’ve been trying to tell you for months.” She lifts Doug’s ear and pretends to yell into it. “It won’t work! He’s a stubborn bastard!”

Nick pours himself another glass of wine. He sits still and thoughtful for a while before he finally makes himself ask, “What if he’s not interested?”

Daisy looks up from her stroking of Doug’s head in her lap. “What?”

“Harry. The hot barrister. What if he’s straight, and just really, really nice? Like you?”

“Oh, darling. Are you really worried about that? It’s all over his face how much he fancies you, every time he’s here. Have you not noticed?”

Nick hasn’t, obviously, but Daisy could also be wrong. “Harry is bloody kind and charming to everyone. He made my producer giggle when he came down to the radio, and she’s a grown woman.”

“Do you want me to ask him? You know I will.”

Nick makes a pained moaning noise. Doug looks at him with mild concern. “God, no. I don’t know. He’s too young. I don’t want to be that old bloke in the sports car desperately clinging to my lost youth. I don’t want to be Chris Evans and Billie Piper.”

“He’s not a teenage popstar, Nick, for god’s sake. He’s a professional adult, and you’re a professional adult, and he likes you and you like him. And Doug and I don’t want to sit here watching you waffle forever.”

“I don’t think Doug minds, really,” says Nick.

“I’m sure he wants you to be happy,” replies Daisy, running her hand down Doug’s back. Nick doesn’t have an argument for that.

 

He meets Harry jogging in the park whilst he’s out walking with Doug the next morning, and it would feel like a set-up if he believed Daisy was that devious. Harry’s wearing the tightest t-shirt and the tiniest shorts, and he’s got his hair held back with a headband. Of course, Doug waddles towards him immediately, wagging his tail. Harry yanks his earbuds out of his ears and immediately stoops to greet the dog, and Nick feels temporarily irrelevant. But then Harry stands up and grins at him, slightly flushed. “Hi, Nick.”

“Well, hello, Harold. Don’t you look healthy?”

“Yeah,” says Harry. “I thought I should balance yoga with, like, some proper cardio. I’m going home to eat donuts after this though,” says Harry. “Does Doug like donuts? Or you? You could come and help.”

“Doug’s on a gluten-free diet his celebrity nutritionist recommended, but I’m not.”

“Then you should come. They’re, like, day-old, but they’re still good. Someone brought them into the office yesterday, but there were some left.”

“That sort of thing would never happen at the BBC,” he says, thinking of Daisy’s cookies from his first day at Radio 2. The whole office had descended on them like vultures. “Why were you in the office on a Saturday?”

“Researching for a brief we’re putting together. Boring stuff though. They bribed us with donuts. Why does Doug have a celebrity nutritionist?”

“That’s what I call Daisy when I’m taking the piss. But she’s been making him stuff and recommending me dog food.”

“Daisy’s great,” says Harry. “She’s just so, like, nice.”

“Yeah. It’s a bit weird, sometimes, how she manages to be so nice. But Doug and I are grateful for it.” Nick notices Harry’s arms are starting to prickle with gooseflesh now that he’s not moving. Even though it doesn’t feel properly like autumn, Nick’s in jeans and a shirt, and Harry’s just got his little shorts on. “Should we get you home? You look cold.”

“Sorry. I think I’m just really susceptible to it. Like, I get cold all the time when other people aren’t.”

“I reckon wearing more clothes would help,” says Nick, tugging a bit at Doug’s lead.

Harry ducks his head and smiles. “I knew I’d gone wrong somewhere.” Nick tries very hard not to watch Harry’s thighs on the walk back to his flat.

He’s been in Harry’s flat a few times, but only briefly, stopping off there on the way to other places. Now he follows Harry into the kitchen whilst Doug sniffs around in the hall. “I’ll make tea. Or coffee? Is coffee better with donuts?” Harry has one of those single cup coffeemakers, like the one Nick had before he realised he was never going to remember to buy pods for it and went back to his cafetière. 

“Yeah, coffee,” says Nick. He’ll be jittery for a couple of hours, but Harry makes him feel that way anyway.

Nick can hear the click-click of Doug’s toenails receding down the hall, and when he peers out of the kitchen, the dog is nowhere to be seen. He finds him sprawled under the glass-topped coffee table in Harry’s living room, looking just as though he’s been there all day. “Right, make yourself at home then.”

“I don’t mind,” says Harry, handing Nick his coffee. “You want to sit down while I change?”

What Nick does is inspect Harry’s bookshelves. It’s mostly legal reference, with a few big art books thrown in, and in front are framed photos of rolling northern landscapes and smiling people who must be Harry’s family.

“Chocolate custard or jam filled?” asks Harry. “Or plain glazed?” He’s in jogging bottoms and he’s got a flannel shirt hanging unbuttoned over his exercise top. He’s balancing two plates on the donut box.

“Chocolate custard, please,” says Nick. Harry sets the box down on the coffee table and Doug looks up at it from below. He serves out donuts and Nick never needed to know what he looked like licking sugar off his thumb. Doug looks plaintively at Nick’s donut, but Nick doesn’t offer him any.

Harry eats half his donut and then looks over at Nick, licking jam from his lips. “Nick, there’s something I’d been meaning to ask you.”

“Yes, Harold?”

“I know that you’ve, like, just got out of a really serious relationship, but I was wondering if maybe you’d fancy going out with me sometime? On a date? Not just to walk the dog and everything.”

When Nick relates this conversation to Daisy later, he tells her he thinks his brain temporarily disconnected from his mouth at this point, because what comes out is, “That’s very sweet, Harry, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.”

“Right,” says Harry, looking crestfallen. “No, I get that. Thanks.”

It’s so inane, and Nick can’t imagine what Harry’s thanking him for. The silence is oppressive, and Nick crams the rest of his donut into his mouth and makes an excuse to leave without finishing his coffee.

 _I am a first class idiot_ , he texts Daisy. She sends back love hearts and kisses, but when he tells her what happened, she just looks sad.

“Are you just not over Jarrod?” she asks. “It’s fine if not. It’s perfectly understandable.”

Nick’s actually remarkably over Jarrod, enough that they’ve started texting a bit again even, although Nick doesn’t think they’ll be proper friends. He shakes his head. “I’m just no good for Harry.”

“You’re wrong, darling,” says Daisy, squeezing his shoulder. “You’re so very wrong.”

 

Daisy proves just how wrong she thinks Nick is when Harry appears at his door the next Saturday with a bottle of wine in hand. “Daisy sent me,” he says. “She told me some stuff, and I think I understand things a bit better now. Can I come in?”

“Of course,” says Nick. He’s wearing jeans with a rip in the thigh and an old Kanye t-shirt. He doesn’t feel prepared for romantic declarations, isn’t even sure that’s what he should be prepared for.

Harry sits down on Nick’s sofa and says, “Daisy says you think you’re too old for me?”

Nick runs a hand through his already tousled hair. “Well, I am. I don’t just think that. I’m a middle-aged man with an old dog and a job chatting to other middle-aged people five days a week.”

“What’s Doug got to do with it?”

Doug’s asleep in his bed beside the sofa, and he doesn’t even stir at his name.

Nick sighs and sits down across from him. “Last time I got a dog, I got a young one. I got an excited wriggly puppy who ate half my books and vomited them up in my bed and never ever slept.”

“Pig,” says Harry, and Nick doesn’t ask how Harry knew that.

“Yeah,” says Nick. “So that’s the sort of dog I got because that’s the sort of dog I thought I wanted. I wanted one to grow up with me. Notwithstanding that I shipped her off to Aimee and Ian when my boyfriend didn’t like dogs.”

“I like dogs,” says Harry.

“I know,” says Nick. “But so this time, I got Doug, right? He's not a puppy. He sleeps a lot and he doesn’t do as much, and he’s not going to be around for as long.” He thinks Harry’s starting to get it as Harry chews thoughtfully at the inside of his lip. 

But then Harry looks at him all soft and sweet and says, “That doesn't mean you love him less. That doesn’t mean he deserves any less love.”

“Of course not,” says Nick. “But, y’know, sometimes it’s easier to love things that are in the same place we are, lifewise. And you’re just a puppy still. And I’m, well, I’m Doug.”

“But I like Doug. I like Doug and I like you. Don’t tell him, but I reckon I like you even _more_ than I like Doug. And you’re not that old anyway. And I’m not that young.” Harry sighs. “Look, if you don’t want to go out with me, it’s fine.”

Nick twists his hands together and watches Harry watching him from the corner of his eye. “I do want to,” he admits. “I do. I can try.”

Harry’s grin is a mile wide. He leans in to kiss Nick on the cheek. “I’m a brilliant date. Where do you want to go? Posh gallery? Painfully cool indie gig? Thorpe Park?”

“Harold, I haven’t even tried dating in six years. Let’s start small, shall we? Let me buy you dinner and pretend all this was my idea.”

“Done,” says Harry.

 

Nick doesn’t tell anyone it’s a date, which may be why it’s so easy to just sit at a table with Harry and eat sushi and talk about finding the right new boots, which is something Harry’s trying to do as autumn sets in properly. It’s like any other time they’ve spent together, except that in between the miso soup and the main course, Harry puts his hand over Nick’s on the table and leaves it there long enough that they both look at it. “Is that okay?” asks Harry, flexing his fingers like he might pull away.

Nick’s not really the handholding type, since it just ends up in sweaty palms, but he lets Harry do it because it clearly matters to him. And it’s a little bit nice having a really attractive man lay claim to him in public. If this were seven or eight years ago, there might even be a pap outside the window trying to snap a picture. Nick smiles at Harry and Harry smiles back.

At the end of the evening, Harry drives him home and walks him to his door, even though it seems a bit silly when they’re neighbours. Harry stands there with his hands in his coat pockets, swaying indecisively, and if it weren’t a date, Nick would ask him in.

“Do you kiss on the first date?” Harry asks after a moment of awkward silent fidgeting.

Nick thinks about saying, _Sometimes I do a lot more than that, sweetheart_ , but Harry’s so solemn and formal about it that he just says, “Yeah.”

And Harry leans in and kisses him, all dry and soft, bringing his hand up to linger against Nick’s cheek. Nick hasn’t kissed someone who wasn’t Jarrod in at least five years, but he puts a hand on Harry’s waist and opens his mouth to kiss him more deeply. He knows how to do this. Harry sags forward into him, sucking at Nick’s lower lip and fitting their bodies more tightly together. Harry’s tongue slips into the gap of Nick’s open mouth, and the way he kisses is as slow and sweet as the way he talks. Nick feels a bit lightheaded by the time he pulls away.

The part of him that wants to invite Harry in is at war with the part that knows that’s too fast, and it’s hard to tell which one he should follow. Harry’s looking at him like he’ll do whatever Nick asks, and that’s more than Nick can handle just now. “Reckon you should be getting home, love,” he says softly. “Thanks for a lovely evening though. Let’s do it again. Soon.”

Harry is watching his mouth as he speaks. “Yeah,” he says. “It was really nice. I’d like to do it again.” He presses his mouth to Nick’s one last time before stepping away. “Thanks. And goodnight!” Nick watches him all the way up the steps before opening the door and going inside.

Doug’s well asleep in his bed when Nick walks in, but he cracks one eye open and thumps his tail approvingly. Nick kneels down to stroke him. “That was a really good date, Doug. He’s a charming bloke, that Harry Styles.”

Doug starts to snore again, and Nick takes that as a sign that he should go to bed. But he lies there for a long time, not sleeping, as he considers the possibility of a second date. Of a third date. Of sex with someone he’s never slept with before.

 

Their next date is to see one of the bands Nick put on the jogging playlist he made for Harry in the summer, and they're great, but everything about the crowd makes Nick feel old. His knees start to tire from standing, and the streaks of grey in his hair are shocking in the blacklit bar at the back of the room. It helps that Harry slips in front of him during the opener, leaning back into Nick until Nick takes the hint and slides his arms around Harry's waist. But he still feels conflicted when they leave, spilling out into the cold night with the rest of the crowd, Harry clinging to his arm and tripping over nothing on the pavement so Nick has to steady him.

"Do you want to go somewhere else?" Harry asks, pulled in tight to Nick’s side. “We could get a drink or something. Or there’s wine at mine.” The suggestion is so delicate, so careful, and Nick doesn’t know what to do with the fact that in all of this, Harry’s trying not to spook him.

“I do like wine I don’t have to pay for,” says Nick.

They have to pass by his flat to get to Harry’s, and he pauses. “I should check on Doug, if we might be at yours awhile.”

Harry nods, but Nick can tell he’s biting back a smile. It’s not as though Nick’s committed to anything. But he’s opened up the possibility. He lets Doug out in the back garden, stares at him until he does a belligerent wee in the cold grass, and then lets him waddle back inside.

“I might be gone overnight,” he tells Doug, as he drops a small handful of extra kibble in his bowl. “So don’t wait up for me, alright?” Doug is already nosing at the food, ignoring him. “Good dog.”

Nick thinks about cleaning his teeth, but it’ll ruin the taste of the wine he assumes Harry has waiting for him, so he just sorts his hair out a bit in the bathroom mirror and makes his way down the road. True to form, Harry’s got soft light and soft music and an open bottle of wine waiting for him. He’s barefoot, and Nick kisses him at the door in spite of himself. “I don’t want to seem too forward,” says Harry, sitting back with his wine in a chair across from Nick’s.

“You don’t,” replies Nick. The wine tingles on his tongue, and he runs his fingers over the bell of the glass unthinkingly. He can’t quite shake the image of the crowd at the venue tonight, how Harry fit and he didn’t. He’s not Kate or Collette; he doesn’t know how to be the oldest person in a room gracefully, and when he was with Jarrod, he never had to learn.

“Did you have fun tonight?” asks Harry. “I thought it was a risk, inviting a DJ to a gig, but since you introduced me to the band, I didn’t think it could be too uncool.”

“You don’t have to try and impress me,” Nick says. “But it was great.” He doesn’t mention feeling old; there’s nothing Harry could do to make it better. Instead he looks at Harry’s shelves of law books and says, “Did you always want to be a barrister?”

“When I was young I wanted to have my own office and serve coffee there, so I could be a barrister-slash-barista, but that didn’t work out.” Harry looks so hopeful that Nick gives him a grudging laugh. “Nah, but for a while, I wanted to be singer. I had a rubbish band when I was at school, but we played a few weddings and things. And I auditioned for _X Factor_ once. I got as far as bootcamp.”

“If you’d got a bit farther, you could have been on my show.”

“I know,” says Harry. “Getting on Radio 1 was the dream.”

“I’m sorry I can only take you as far as Radio 2 now.”

Harry looks coyly from under his eyelashes. “I reckon you could take me lots of places.” Nick’s face must do something alarming at that, because Harry says, “Sorry, that was weird. I’m really trying not to, like, throw myself at you.”

Nick takes another sip of his wine. “Just throw yourself gently, alright?”

Harry seems to take that to heart. When he slides himself into Nick’s lap and tilts his face down for a kiss, it’s because Nick beckoned him there, drew him in with a hand on his waist. Harry’s mouth is soft and lush, opening slowly over Nick’s, and Nick strokes at Harry’s loose curls. He slicks his hair back during the working week, and he looks even younger like this, with his hair falling into his face.

“Do you want to spend the night?” Harry asks against Nick’s mouth, his lips gone dark pink and slick, everything about him inviting.

“Yeah.” He’d warned Doug he might not be home, and he doesn’t want to stop touching Harry now. He runs his hand up Harry’s back, Harry’s shirt smooth beneath his fingers. Harry takes a deep breath, shivering down into another kiss.

He wishes he could just pick Harry up and carry him to the bedroom when the logistics of snogging in an armchair get to be too much, but in the end they both have to walk. He hasn’t seen Harry’s bedroom before, and he thinks maybe he won’t get to now, but Harry flicks on the bedside lamp before he flops down in the centre of the bed. Nick can’t imagine having sex with the lights on with someone who looks like Harry Styles, but he kicks his boots off and lies down beside him anyway, kissing the stretch of collarbone exposed by the open collar of his shirt. Harry goes pliant under his mouth, lets Nick get a taste of his skin, slightly salty with sweat after an evening in a packed club.

Nick feels bold going for the buttons on Harry’s shirt, Harry’s heart thumping away as Nick spreads his hand against his chest, sparse hair tickling his fingertips. Harry murmurs his name, draws Nick’s mouth back to his, and everything is slow and simple for a while, Nick reaching out to tease at Harry’s nipples, swallowing the little sounds he makes. It’s easy to get out of his own head then, focusing on every lovely inch of Harry’s skin, brushed gold in the lamplight.

Harry’s arms slide around Nick’s waist, and his hands press up under Nick’s jumper, squeezing at bare flesh. Nick’s soft in so many places Harry is lean and firm, and Nick fights hard against the urge to pull away. “Want you so much,” Harry whispers, and it’s enough to make Nick keep kissing him, to stay right there whilst Harry starts to roam under his top.

“What do you want me to do, love?” he asks, rubbing his hand over Harry’s belly until he reaches the waist of his jeans. Harry’s hips move in a slow roll, and he looks up with glassy eyes, so worked up just from kissing.

“Just touch me,” Harry says, working his own flies open one-handed to reveal the heavy shape of his cock in black boxer-briefs. “And let me touch you.”

Nick doesn’t like letting Harry undress him, but every time he thinks he’ll just pull away or turn out the light or pin Harry’s roving hands to the pillow, Harry makes another small contented noise like Nick’s the best thing he’s ever seen, and Nick lets him continue. They’re down to their pants before Nick has to tuck himself under the duvet, pulling Harry in with him. Harry doesn’t seem to mind, rolling over on top of Nick, rubbing his thigh against the swell of Nick’s cock. Nick’s hard enough to rock into the pressure, wonder if they’ll get off like schoolboys without even touching each other’s dicks. Nick’s pretty sure it would work, and he reaches down to grasp at the curve of Harry’s arse, guiding their hips into a steadier rhythm.

Harry buries his face in the side of Nick’s neck and moans, grinding hard against Nick’s hip. “Can I ride you?” Harry says, so low and wrecked that if his mouth weren’t an inch from Nick’s ear, he wouldn’t have heard.

“Go on then,” says Nick. Harry’s got condoms and lube beside the bed, and Nick’s first glimpse of his cock as he shucks off his pants is startlingly good. If they’re going to keep doing this, he’d like to try that cock out in his arse sometime soon. But for tonight he just thumbs at the leaking tip before easing his first finger into Harry’s arsehole. Harry’s legs are spread over Nick’s hips, and Nick wishes he could see the place where his finger disappears into the tight clutch of Harry’s body, but it’s lovely to watch Harry’s face too, the expressive arch of his eyebrows as he concentrates on bearing down, on opening. He starts to rock his hips when Nick slips a second finger into him, and Nick’s dick is swelling even further as he imagines that tight heat on him. His pants are lost somewhere at the foot of the bed, and the tip of his cock nudges Harry’s arsecheek as Harry fucks himself harder on Nick’s fingers.

When Nick guides his cock into Harry’s arse, Harry breathes with him on the whole slow slide down, palms flat against Nick’s belly as he works himself open that last little bit. He’s flushed and bleary eyed, and Nick barely has to lay a hand on his cock to make him groan. “Oh, look at you, love,” Nick says aloud, fingers gentle around the hot length of Harry’s shaft.

Harry fucks himself deep and slow on Nick’s cock, moaning Nick’s name as it hits him just right. His thighs flex as he sets his knees wider, steadying himself. He sits back on Nick’s cock, makes a slow circle with his hips. Nick pumps some more lube into his hand and wanks Harry until he’s trembling, squeezing so tight on Nick’s cock that Nick nearly can’t breathe from the pleasure of it. Nick’s toes curl as Harry starts to come apart on top of him, shaking and gasping as his come spurts over Nick’s pumping fist, his whole beautiful body shuddering with his orgasm. He lets Nick fuck him through it, and it doesn’t take long for Nick to come after that, Harry pliant and shivery, pressing sloppy kisses to the side of Nick’s neck. 

It’s a minute before Harry lifts himself up on shaky, coltish legs to let Nick chuck the condom whilst he slips into the bathroom for a wet flannel. Harry makes himself into the little spoon after he’s wiped them both down, lets Nick curl around him and rest a hand against his belly. “You’re going to stay, right?” asks Harry sleepily.

Nick nods and kisses the back of his neck. “I’ll have to leave early to walk the dog though.”

Harry laces their fingers together. “S’alright. I’ll come along then. Doug likes me.”

Nick smiles into his hair, squeezes his hand. “I like you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://realmenwearpuppypants.tumblr.com/).


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